The Mystery at Underwood House

by Clara Benson

  The Mystery at Underwood House

  Clara Benson

  Copyright

  © 2013 Clara Benson

  All rights reserved

  The right of Clara Benson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-1-291-54591-3

  clarabenson.com

  Cover design by Yang Liu waterpaperink.com

  The Mystery at Underwood House

  Old Philip Haynes was never happier than when his family were at each other's throats. Even after his death the terms of his will ensured they would keep on feuding. But now three people are dead and the accusations are flying. Can there really be a murderer in the family? Torn between friendship and duty, Angela Marchmont must find out the truth before the killer can strike again.

  The Mystery at Underwood House is the latest exciting 1920s whodunit featuring reluctant ‘lady detective’ Angela Marchmont.

  PROLOGUE

  The lights blazed out from the house, casting a warm glow a few feet out onto the lawn. A man stood in the shadows just outside the pool of light, hunching his shoulders against the chill February air and glaring sulkily back towards the house. He was angry with everybody—but most of all himself. How stupid he had been to storm out on such a cold night wearing only a dinner jacket! Almost as soon as he had emerged into the garden his anger had dissipated and he had desired to return inside. But the door had locked itself behind him and now he would have to attract someone’s attention if he wanted to fetch a coat, which would make him look even more of a snivelling fool than he already did. Why hadn’t he done the sensible thing and stormed off to his room instead?

  The windows stared back at him, seeming to mock him with their promise of warmth and comfort. Damn the house! He had always hated it, ugly thing that it was and harbourer of a lifetime of unhappy memories. He couldn’t wait to get rid of it as soon as they’d let him. And damn the rest of them! He wanted none of them, money or no money. He would never be persuaded to come here again.

  He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette and lit it, turning away as he tried to determine what to do next. Of course he would have to abase himself sooner or later by begging to be let back in, but he judged that an hour or so outside would lessen his humiliation and enable him to maintain at least a modicum of dignity. At any rate, there was no use in skulking around miserably; he might as well take a brisk stroll to keep warm. With an impatient click of the tongue he set off in the direction of the lake. The sky was clear and there was a full moon, which lit his way forward.

  He walked quickly, his footsteps making the only sound, although he was too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice. After a while he saw something glint through the trees, and shortly afterwards came out onto the shore of the lake, near a dilapidated wooden landing-stage. An old rowing-boat, its painter knotted and frayed in places, bobbed gently nearby. The water glimmered eerily in the cold half-light, and wisps of damp mist hung silently over it. The man walked to the end of the jetty and stood, hands in his pockets, gazing at the scene with a faint expression of distaste; he had had no love for the lake as a child, having a dislike of water in general, and had seen no reason to change his opinion as an adult. He had always felt that there was something desolate and unearthly about this place, something repellent, even. Why he had come this way he had no idea.

  His blood was cooling rapidly now after the row, and he was beginning to feel rather an idiot. He wondered what the others were doing. Knowing his family, they had probably all returned to the drawing-room to pass the time in addressing each other with thinly-veiled contempt: that was the way things usually went during these affairs. Of course, two of them were absent today—queer, that, now he came to think about it. Very queer, in fact, that someone should have died at both of the last two gatherings. The first death hadn’t been exactly a surprise; it had been the culmination of years of ill-health. But the second one, now; that had been something of a shock in its stark violence. He remembered, wincing, the sight of the broken, twisted body lying there, empty eyes staring at nothing. How had such an accident happened? It had really been most unfortunate. Why was the family dogged by bad luck? Who would be next? Suddenly and unexpectedly he was overwhelmed by the feeling that the woods and the darkness were closing in on him, pushing him gently yet inexorably towards the freezing lake and its unfathomable depths. He looked upwards, to where the trees hung over his head, and shivered. He had been here long enough; perhaps it was time to return to the house.

  Lost in thought, the man did not hear the footsteps until they were very near. Only a creak as someone stepped onto the landing-stage behind him alerted him to the fact that someone was close by. He started and whirled round to see a figure approaching.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘Goodness, how you startled me!’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said the figure.

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  His companion smiled, but said nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry about the row just now. We never did seem to be able to get along in company together. I don’t know why on earth we should be forced to attend these gatherings. I think it must have been a joke on Father’s part—although I can’t say I find it very funny.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘You see things differently, I dare say. Well, I find it all a dreadful bore. I suppose they sent you to find me?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the man, somewhat disconcerted. ‘Well don’t tell me you’ve come out for a walk at this hour. What time is it? It must be late.’

  ‘It’s twenty minutes to midnight,’ replied the figure.

  ‘Really? I’ve been out longer than I thought. I must be getting back to the house, or they will wonder where I have got to.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said the other. ‘I have something to say first.’

  ‘Yes?’ said the man impatiently.

  ‘Do you know what day it is?’

  The man stared.

  ‘What do you mean? Of course I know what day it is. It’s Wednesday. Or did you mean the date?’

  His companion frowned, and in some undefinable way the man knew he had given the wrong answer. He was suddenly afraid.

  ‘Another one. How soon people forget,’ said the figure. ‘Perhaps you will recognize this.’

  The man took the thing that was offered and looked at it, uncomprehending.

  ‘Why, yes, of course. That’s my—but what does it mean?’

  The figure began to speak. It spoke at length, the shadows of the trees closing in all the while, pushing them both towards the lake, and as he listened the man understood with a stab of fear that he would not be returning to the house again.

  ONE

  ‘Oh, how clumsy I am!’ exclaimed Mrs. Haynes, putting down the teapot with a clatter. ‘No, don’t move—I shall mop it up. I do hope it hasn’t gone over your frock.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. But don’t use your nice, clean handkerchief. Here, have my napkin.’

  Angela Marchmont sat back as her hostess flapped distractedly around a pool of tea that had begun to drip over the edge of the
table and onto the rug.

  ‘It’s no good. I’m only making things worse. I shall have to ring the bell. Annie, I’ve made rather a mess here. Clear this up and bring us a fresh pot, please. You’d better take that cushion away too and see what you can do with it. What a good girl you are! I am sorry, Angela. We shall have to wait a little longer for our tea.’

  ‘Are you quite all right, Louisa?’ asked Angela. ‘You seem a little out of sorts, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  Louisa Haynes seemed to sag a little.

  ‘Is it really that obvious?’ she asked.

  Mrs. Marchmont looked towards the damp stain on the rug with raised eyebrows and her friend smiled humorously.

  ‘Silly of me. Well then, yes, I do have something on my mind now you mention it—’ she let the sentence hang in the air, as though unsure whether to continue.

  ‘Suppose you tell me about it,’ suggested Angela. ‘I have a feeling that you were going to anyway.’

  She smiled and Louisa laughed, but there was a note of anxiety in her voice.

  ‘Oh dear, I never was any good at deceiving people! And you were always so clever about that kind of thing. But you’re right—I do have something I wanted to talk to you about. It’s about John. And it’s worrying me dreadfully.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Angela, cautiously, half-expecting to be asked to furnish a sympathetic ear and friendly advice in the matter of Louisa’s husband and some bright young woman.

  ‘Well, I say it’s about John, but really it’s about the Hayneses in general and old Philip who died a couple of years ago,’ said Louisa. ‘The dispute over the house really isn’t helping and none of them like each other anyway and I do wonder sometimes if it wasn’t deliberate, because he really was rather an old devil you know, although I don’t like to use the word, but it was very odd of him to insist that his children meet twice a year if they wanted his money, and now Edward’s dead and only John is left and we had the inquest and people are starting to talk. Do you see?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Angela. ‘Who is Edward? And why do his children have to meet twice a year?’

  ‘Not Edward’s children, Philip’s,’ said Mrs. Haynes. ‘Because of the will.’

  ‘Philip’s will, or Edward’s?’

  ‘Philip’s. I suppose the half of Edward’s money that remains afterwards will go directly to Ursula and Robin.’

  ‘I’m rather confused,’ said Angela. ‘Suppose we start at the beginning. By Philip do you mean Philip Haynes, John’s father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Philip died and left a will?’

  ‘Yes, he left all his money to his four children in equal shares, with the proviso that they all dine together and spend the night here at Underwood House twice a year. In the will he said it was because he was sorry he had never succeeded in bringing up his children to love one another, and so he wanted them to meet regularly and attempt to get along better once he had gone. However, it’s far more likely that he did it to make mischief. That was the kind of man he was.’

  ‘Do none of the children get on? What about their mother?’

  ‘She died about twenty years ago when John was quite a young man. I understand it was not a happy marriage. John doesn’t like to talk about it much, but I gather the parents often used the children as pawns in their disputes, playing off one against the other and buying their loyalty with gifts and treats as it suited them. Poor things. It’s no wonder they all grew up to mistrust each other.’

  ‘John is the eldest, I seem to remember?’

  ‘Yes. Then after him came Philippa, Winifred and Edward. I believe there was another girl, but she died many years ago.’

  ‘So each child inherited a quarter of the money. What about the house?’

  ‘He left that to them all between them, to do with as they wished. Of course, that caused problems immediately, as they couldn’t agree what to do with it. John wanted to keep it, as he loves the old place, while Philippa and Edward wanted to sell it but disagreed on how to go about it and how much it was worth. Winifred, poor dear, who was always a little unworldly, wanted to give it away to a charitable institution for the education of orphaned girls. So nothing was ever decided.’

  ‘I see. How difficult for them. But presumably it wasn’t a pressing matter, since they had all inherited some money.’

  ‘Yes, but even that wasn’t as straightforward as it ought to have been. You see, Philip left them ten thousand pounds each, but only half of that sum was theirs to do as they liked with. The other five thousand was a life interest, so they received only the income from it and couldn’t touch the capital.’

  ‘And who was to inherit the capital after their deaths?’

  ‘Well that’s the queer thing. Under Philip’s will, the money reverts absolutely to Mr. Faulkner, his lawyer.’

  ‘Indeed? That seems a little unusual. Were they very good friends?’

  ‘Oh, they were as thick as thieves,’ said Louisa, ‘but I shouldn’t have called them friends, exactly. Old Philip didn’t have friends. He had allies and he had enemies, and the one might become the other almost overnight, since you were either in favour or out of favour with him at any given moment. Mr. Faulkner is something of a character himself, and I believe there was a great deal of sympathy between the two of them. They used to spend hours shut in Philip’s study, discussing who knows what.’

  ‘Were the family surprised when they heard that Philip had left his solicitor the money?’

  ‘I suppose they were. But they knew their father, you see—they were perfectly aware of how capricious and strange he was, and how useless it was to try and beat him in anything, so they accepted it with a kind of resignation, I think, and didn’t examine it too closely. It was the same with the twice-yearly gatherings: none of them liked it but they went along with it, as they knew it was the only way to get their share of the inheritance.’

  ‘I see,’ said Angela. ‘So where does Edward’s death come in?’

  ‘Well that’s the thing,’ said Mrs. Haynes. ‘If it were only about him then I shouldn’t be bothering you with all this. But it’s all of them.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Yes. They’re all dead. First Philippa, then Winifred, and now Edward. Three meetings we’ve had since Philip’s death. Three. And at each meeting one of Philip’s children has died.’

  ‘Good gracious!’ said Angela.

  Louisa nodded.

  ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘And it’s starting to look rather suspicious.’

  TWO

  Angela, who until then had been perched politely on the edge of her seat in the manner of a formal visitor preparing to sup her afternoon tea politely and leave, settled herself firmly into the cushions.

  ‘Tell me what happened, Louisa,’ she said.

  Mrs. Haynes, gratified that she had fully captured the attention of her audience just as she had hoped, adopted a more confidential tone.

  ‘Well, it all started in February last year, at the first of the family dinners following Philip’s death a few months earlier. You see, according to the terms of the will, Mr. Faulkner is responsible for summoning us all to these gatherings.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, whom do you mean by “us”? It’s not just Philip’s children who attend, I take it.’

  ‘Oh no. We all have to go. Of course, John and I have no choice in the matter since we live here, as did Philippa—she never married, you know. Then there’s Winifred and her daughter Susan, and Edward and his wife Ursula and their son Robin. A few weeks before the date, we all receive a letter from Mr. Faulkner reminding us terribly politely of the terms of the will, and inviting—or rather instructing us to dine together on a particular day.’

  ‘Were any dates specified in the will?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, but last year we all met in February and May, and this year so far we have met in February again.’

  ‘On the same day as the meeting of last February?’

 
‘Why, now you come to mention it, I believe it was. Let me think. This year we all spent the night of the 16th here, and—yes, of course: it was the same date last year too. I remember particularly because it was on the 17th that we heard that my god-daughter’s baby had arrived early, and I was vexed because I hadn’t finished knitting its hat and mittens. How odd.’

  ‘Is there any significance attached to the 16th of February that you know of?’ asked Angela.

  ‘None that I can think of,’ replied her friend, considering a moment.

  ‘And what about the next family dinner? When will that be? In May again? It must be coming up soon, if so.’

  ‘I have no idea. We haven’t received anything from Mr. Faulkner yet. Is it important, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t suppose so,’ said Angela. ‘Anyway, please go on.’

  ‘Well, everybody duly turned up here as instructed, and we had dinner and were mostly civil to each other and a jolly miserable time was had by all, I should think. Then we all trotted off to bed and met for breakfast the next morning, but Philippa didn’t turn up, and when someone eventually went up to fetch her it was found that she had died in her sleep. Or so it was assumed, anyway. She’d had heart trouble for many years, so we were shocked but not exactly surprised when it happened.’

  ‘Had she been well the evening before?’

  ‘Yes, as far as I remember. I think she complained about the dinner. She was rather a complainer about things though. It was a little tiresome sometimes.’

  ‘And was there any sign that her death was due to anything other than natural causes?’

  ‘No, not at all. The doctor was quite happy to sign a death certificate, and she was buried and that was that. Or so we thought, at least. Then a couple of months later we got another letter from Mr. Faulkner asking us to gather here for dinner on the 27th of May, and that’s when Winifred fell over the balustrade, poor thing.’